


An Endless Variety of Knives

by LadyGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Dom!Mary, Explicit Sex, F/M, Knives, M/M, Mary is Moran, Other, References to Suicide, Season 3 Spoilers, Season 3 feels, Sub!Jim, bottom!Mary, but it is consensual, explicit cutting, filthy dirty sex on the kitchen floor, if this doesnt rip your heart out i did something wrong, jim is a bratty sub, just triggers all over the place, lots of blood, mary is a fucking sadist, not even remotely sane, note the archive warning, one out of three aint bad?, or safe, plot meta, seriously dont read this if you dont like blood, sick fuckery, sub!Sherlock(implied), top!John, unrequited johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGrey/pseuds/LadyGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ghost from the past comes to visit Mary and awakens a dormant side of her personality she's been hiding for a long time. . .</p><p>This story is my attempt to deal with all of my feels from Season 3. It's my headcanon that Mary IS Moran, so I've made her both complicit with Moriarty and horribly evil and sadistic in this story. If you are not up for reading about two psychopaths having violent filthy sex, click away now.</p><p>Also, if your ship is Johnlock(mine is), this is going to BURN THE HEART OUT OF YOU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Endless Variety of Knives

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Katie and Scotius for being fabulous betas! I was so full of feels that my grammar and spelling suffered very badly in the writing of this, but they set me straight. Well, more correct anyway. I'll never be straight ;)
> 
> I did not submit this to my britpicker. It's violent and filthy and she is amazing and I don't want to frighten her away because I need her. Please forgive any Americanisms.

“Hi-iii!” sings a familiar voice as Mary walks through the door of the flat she shares with John Watson. Mary freezes.

The ghost saunters casually around the corner into the entranceway, false hurt all over his boyish face. “Don't you have anything to say? Didn't you miss me?”

Mary backs against the door, considers running. “You're dead,” she whispers.

“Oh!” he exclaims with a giggle, “Am I?” 

He advances until there are scant inches between them, stopping just short of pressing Mary against the door. She stops breathing. 

Jim Moriarty leans forward and flicks a gentle tongue over the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “How do you feel about necrophilia then, darling?”

The almost forgotten shiver threatens to buckle her knees. It has been two years since he whispered his delightful perversions in her ears, two years since she felt the caress of his tongue, his hands, his voice. Mary could end him in a heartbeat, but then, he'd always loved that about her. Could she say the same of John Watson? John. Oh.

“John will be home soon. You can't be here.”

“Do you really think so little of me, my darling?” Jim presses a kiss against her neck. “I've sent John a distraction. He'll be home in a few hours, slightly roughed up, bloody knuckles, high on adrenaline. He'll want to fuck you, you know. He will pound you into the mattress, no, he won't make it to the bedroom; he'll bend you over the kitchen table as soon as he walks in the door. You've been liking that about your fiancé, haven't you? He's so different from me, so delightfully dominant. Do you know how many fantasies I've had of the both of you having your way with me?” He presses his erection against her and moans, perhaps not even acting. She worked him over once with a soldier, Lieutenant Harbaugh, dishonorably discharged for “fraternization,” which is probably the nicest word the Army has for rape. The things they did to Jim's small, fragile body still haunted her filthiest dreams.

“He would never. . .” Mary says.

“Oh I knoooow,” Jim drawls, “but a boy can dream, can't he? I've been dreaming of you while I've been dead. Have you been dreaming of me?”

Mary says nothing.

“Ohh Mary, Mary, quite contrary, _tell me_ ,” he whines into her neck, breath hot on her collarbones beneath her scrubs.

“I can't, we can't do this,” she says, not even convincing herself.

“I'll be naughty,” he says, “I'll be so naughty you can't stand it. You'll have to stop me somehow.”

“Don't,” she says, the old familiar warning tone seeping into her voice against her will. It's been too long since she hit anyone across the face, since she shoved a man's face into the floor and squeezed his testicles until he screamed and begged. And god, Jim could beg so sweetly, he knew what she liked. . .

Jim clucks his tongue and backs away. He pulls his phone out of the pocket of his exquisitely tailored light grey Westwood. _Mary could destroy that suit, cut it off with a knife, leave it in shreds on the floor, gag him with that expensive silk tie. . ._

“Hmm,” he says, flicking through screens, “perhaps a children's hospital this time? I do love explosions, but I've had this vial of smallpox burning a hole in my pocket and it would just be _soooooo_ much fun! All those immuno-compromised children, they'll drop like flies. What do you think, Mary, Mistress Mary? One phone call is all it will take. . .” Jim hovers one well manicured finger over his call button and flashes her his naughtiest grin, the one he always gave her when he wanted her to figure out what he'd done this time. 

Mary snaps. Dead, alive, it doesn't matter. She will make him explain later. It has been _years_ since she was allowed to make anyone bleed, years since she made anyone scream, and Jim is _hers_. Her boy. Her bad bad boy who obviously needs to be broken until he looks at her, those hard reptillian eyes gone soft and out of focus, and weeps in defeat with how much he needs her. (John doesn't need her. Not really. He's just conveniently codependent. Nothing like Jim's desperate all consuming black hole of _need_.)

She smacks the phone out of Jim's hand, grabs his thumb and wrist, and spins him face first against the door hard enough to hear his teeth clack. She wrenches his arm up his back until she can move it no further without actually dislocating his shoulder.

A manic giggle bubbles out of her old lover. “Oh gooooood,” he purrs, “Oh Mistress, I've been so naughty, you don't even know.” 

“Of course I know,” Mary scoffs, “I know you, James Moriarty. I know the small sniveling worm that lives in the center of your heart and I will swallow it alive and shit it out as many times as it takes to show you what you really are.”

“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me. . .Ah! Oh!” Jim starts to sing, but stops when Mary pushes on his arm, just barely subluxating the joint. 

“Go ahead you little brat. Keep singing.” Her voice holds a distinct threat. He will rise to the challenge, she knows he will, and she will break him for it.

“I think I'll just go eat worms!” he gasps.

Mary dislocates his shoulder. He screams and pounds the door with his other fist, then sinks against it, gasping and whimpering. The pressure of Mary's body is the only thing holding him up now. The scream goes straight to her cunt, a bolt of erotic electricity reigniting passions she'd denied herself for too long. Her blood runs hot and every whimper brings a new flood of wetness to her boring workday knickers. She might actually kill him this time, or put him in the hospital again. What would it be like to fuck him while he bleeds out beneath her? How long could he bleed before he went soft inside of her? 

She drops his arm and he screams again, high pitched and helpless. The arm dangles by his side and he slides to his knees when she steps away, forehead pressed against the door, tears falling on the silk of his trousers. Her boy can cry so beautifully at the smallest thing. Those who know him less well might think he is faking, but Mary knows better. Jim Moriarty is genuine, the most genuine man that she knows. At any moment, on a whim, on request, or for no reason at all, he can access the darkest corners of himself, or the brightest and most romantic. It's all real. James Moriarty is a man of madness and multitudes, and every single one of them belong to Mary.

Mary drags him back to his feet by the collar of his expensive silk shirt. He stumbles and sags against her, still weeping. She digs her teeth into the back of his neck and bites down hard until she tastes blood and he screams again. She almost comes, humping herself against his slender bottom, suddenly needing to smear herself all over that bloody suit, ruin it, desecrate everything beautiful about her boy. 

“Oh bother,” she says, wiping blood off her lips as she watches blood seep into Jim's collar, “I seem to have broken you a bit. Would you like me to fix it?”

“Yes!” he gasps.

“Yes what?” She smacks him gently in the wounded shoulder, but it's enough to draw a squeal and more tears.

“Yes, Mistress, please!” Jim begs.

She spins him around and cradles his chin in her hand, squeezing the pressure points on his jaw. He winces and closes his eyes, dislodging more tears from his red rimmed lashes. 

“Open your eyes,” Mary commands.

Jim opens his eyes and stares at her dejectedly. He even pouts a bit. 

“This is going to hurt,” she says with a small smile.

“I know,” he says, returning it. 

“Sing for me,” she orders, “and don't stop. And don't you dare fuck it up.”

“Ring around the rosey, pocket full of po. . .” Jim sings in a sweet falsetto but then gasps and garbles “posies” when she abducts, lifts, then adducts his shoulder back into place with an audible click.

Mary sighs, letting her disappointment seep into her eyes. “Can't you do anything right?” 

Jim sucks a breath through his teeth and grabs his now relocated shoulder. “I'm sorry, Mistress.”

“Sing it again,” she orders.

“Ring around the. . .ergh!” he stops singing when Mary slaps him, hard enough to turn his head.

“Keep singing, you worthless moron!” she yells.

Jim starts singing again. This time he keeps singing as she slaps him first from one side and then the other. She slaps him until blood runs from his mouth and his singsong falsetto drops into his natural tenor.

“Good,” she says, “Good boy!” She presses her lips against his, licking blood out of his gums, nipping hard at his bottom lip, and he melts against her and moans, caressing her tongue with his own wickedly pointed one, pressing his erection into her stomach, allowing her to claim him with her mouth and her hands. She skates them up to his tie and pulls him closer, tightening the knot as much as his collar will allow, cutting off his air supply just enough to make him struggle to break the kiss so he can gasp in a breath, but she does not allow it. 

She steps back and presses a hand firmly against his mouth before he can suck in a breath. He struggles to breathe through his nose, clogged with snot from crying, some of which blows out and on to her hand as he pants through one half functioning nostril. 

“You don't deserve to share air with me,” Mary says, genuinely angry, “Two fucking years! Two fucking years and you let me think you were dead and the only memorial I could give you was continuing this mad plan of yours to the end. Are you pleased then, Jim? Did my cunt serve your purposes yet again? I think it did. He loves me, and we're getting married, and it's absolutely _killing_ that boyfriend of yours.”

She takes her hand from his mouth and wipes his snot on the lapel of his suit. He draws a shaky, short, breath.

“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down!” he finishes singing, breathy and low. His dark eyes sparkle in that way only Irish eyes can.

“Oh yes,” Mary says, fiddling with his tie, “his heart burns. I see it every time he looks at my fiancé. Did you know John asked him to be his best man? He helped me pick out the color of the bridesmaid dresses.” Mary can't fight a giggle. “He learned to fold napkins, Jim. You should have seen him. This is killing him, killing him so slowly. . .”

Jim moans like Mary is talking dirty, which she is, for him. “More,” he begs.

“In the kitchen,” Mary counters, “on your back on the floor.”

“I thought you might want to have me in your bed, the one you share with him.”

“I do, but later. It's easier to clean blood off the tile.”

“Oh,” gasps Jim, “ _Oh Mary. . .”_

Mary grabs his shoulder and steers him into the kitchen as he squirms, shoulder still sore. She sweeps his feet and he lands hard on his arse with a squeal, then she kicks him in the chest hard so that he sprawls on his back as she asked. “We need to work on your obedience,” she says, pawing through the knife drawer. She pulls out a serrated steak knife and flashes it at him. “This one will do, I think.”

She starts with his shirt buttons, shoving the knife none too gently between them at his waistband and pulling it up to pop off his buttons. She'll have to police those later, but if one rolls under the stove, well, John won't notice. John is an idiot. She stops at the tie and pulls it off properly, setting it aside for later use. Jim takes a deep breath, finally able to pull in a full lungful of air. 

“More,” he begs again, thrusting his hips but finding nothing but air.

Mary pops off his last collar button with the knife and lets the tip dig into the soft skin of his throat. A small drop of blood wells up and she licks it off.

“You know the wall he usually covers with cases and crime scene photos? It's covered with wedding planning right now. He's put the wedding venue in his Mind Palace. Can you imagine? Every time we meet to discuss seating arrangements or which of John's relatives hate me he gets more and more helpless. He doesn't know what to do, Jim. The great Sherlock Holmes is lost. He is doing his duty to John because he _loves_ him, and he won't say a thing about it because he hates himself so very deeply. Just. Like. You.”

Jim sighs and his dark eyes glitter with pleasure at the comparison. 

“Do you suppose,” Mary says casually, scratching the knife down the center of his torso, leaving a puffy red line that makes him squirm, “that he would feel better if John finally took him in hand? Taught him a lesson? Gave him what I give to you?”

“Oh yessssss,” he hisses, eyes closed, certainly already imagining the scene.

“He always keeps that riding crop around, but John never takes the hint. But oh, Jim, he can't fool me. I know he needs it more than he needs to breathe, but he will never, ever ask. He will pine forever. He will bring himself off alone in his room imagining John whipping him bloody the way he knows he deserves for being such a fucked up asshole, and he will feel nothing but shame and heartbreak while he does it. And John will never know, because John is an idiot and Sherlock Holmes is a coward.” 

Jim moans, eyes still closed, and Mary would bet her considerable life savings (stashed away in various boltholes and anonymous accounts around the world) that he is leaking like a faucet beneath those expensive silk trousers.

Mary pulls out his belt and starts sawing her way through his waistband. Sure, she could pop the hook and the zipper, but this is so much more destructive. It is easy, too easy, to saw through the waistband and down one leg, then all the way down the other until only his weight keeps the shredded fabric pinned to the floor. Beneath he wears lacy light blue women's briefs; they match his tie. Beneath the lace his cock juts out, lifting the waistband off his abdomen just a bit, and Mary can see the fluid pooling there just as she suspected.

“Oh Jim, you romantic, you!” 

“Do you like them?”

“They match your tie. I'm going to have to truss you up prettily now. Save me some effort and shrug out of your coat and shirt, would you?”

Jim knows what she wants. He pushes up on his elbows and winces as pain lances through his shoulder. He grits his teeth and rolls his shoulders, whimpering, and lets his coat and shredded shirt fall to the floor. Mary sweeps them aside and pushes him back down. She pokes the tip of the knife into his taint through the lacy panties and his cock jerks, dribbling still more fluid. 

“Up,” she says, pushing the tip in harder. He whimpers.

Jim obediently lifts his hips so she can pull the scraps of his trousers from beneath his bony arse and toss them onto the pile of his ruined suit. Now he is naked but for those gorgeous knickers. She drags the serrations of the knife up the ridge of his cock, tearing the lace as she goes, exposing skin in some places but not cutting them completely, just letting the serrations catch in the lace as they will. 

“Oh, oh god, Mistress, _please_!” Jim begs, squirming under the knife.

“Please what?” Mary drags the serrations gently down his inner thigh, following the path of his femoral artery.

“ _Kill me._ ” He is absolutely serious. He begs for death every time, the suicidal little fuck. 

“I'll think about it,” Mary says. And she will. 

“You never do,” Jim pouts.

“I've come close a few times.”

He smiles, no doubt remembering those times. She continues to drag the knife down his leg. He's splayed himself open for her, vulnerable at the groin, but also. . .one swift motion leaves a ragged gash in the side of his calf and he jerks to a seated position, howling.

“Oh, that won't do it, will it?” She repeats the motion on his inner thigh, being sure to just miss his femoral, but leaving a nasty bloody mess all the same. There are old scars there from where she had done this before, though they've faded over the years he's been gone.

Jim whimpers staccato as his blood leaks from one wound and pulses out of the other. Mary shoves him back down, leans down to put her mouth over the one on his thigh, sucks, bites, tastes the metallic salty tang of blood in her mouth. There's a lot of it. She must have nicked a smaller artery after all, but he won't bleed out from that, so she lets the blood overflow her mouth and drip down his pale skin onto the tile. She licks a bloody trail up the scratch she left earlier on his torso and claims his mouth, eats his whimpers and replaces them with blood.

She and he are bound in blood, always have been, always will be, ever since he found her bleeding in a storage container, her last uncompromised bolt hole, or so she thought.

_”They'll be here in ten minutes,” said the skinny man with the Irish lilt. She could hardly see him in the dim light of the container where she huddled in a corner._

_“What?” she played for time and wiped half coagulated blood out of her eyes trying to see him better. Her vision blurred. Concussion. Fuck._

_“Your playmates in the CIA, aren't they adorable? I see why you liked them. For a time, anyway. But you're done with all that, aren't you? You're ready to play with the big boys now.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I am a very big boy, if you know what I mean.”_

_“No,” she said, “impossible.”_

_“Oh darlin,” said the Irishman, reaching out to stroke her hair, “don't be stupid. You aren't sexy when you're stupid.”_

_“Sexy?”_

_“Oh yes, I've been watching you, Ms. Anderson. It's been a long time since I've wanted anyone the way I want you.”_

_“How do you know my name?” Fuck. Fuck. If he knew who she was then. . ._

_“Shhhhh, relax. I don't care who you were, only who I'm going to make you be.”_

_“Can't make me be anything!” she growled._

_“Truuuue!” he sang in a high childish voice, “but I think you'll like me. I think you'll like me a lot.”_

_“Fuck off.” She coughed and her vision tunneled. She was going to pass out soon._

_“Don't be that way. Let me rescue you. I can he-elp! I'm a helper!”_

_“What do you want?” she managed to squeeze out of a painfully dry throat._

_“You. I want you. I want everything that you are. I want your knife at my throat and your strength at my fingertips. I want your teeth on my cock and your rifle sight on my enemies. I will bring you a war, if you bring home the blood, Mary Morstan.”_

_“That's not. . .”_

_“It is now. Do you like it? I quite fancy it myself. I can call you Mistress Mary!” The mad man giggled, high pitched and tinny in echoes from the container._

_She was fading fast, mere seconds of consciousness left. “Fine,” she whispered, and let her vision fade._

Since then she'd learned a lot about James Moriarty, and she never regretted her decision, not once. 

He squirmed beneath her as she kissed him and dug her nails into his thigh. God, she was going to have to take a bath in bleach to clean his blood from the crevasses of her body.

“Tell me you have a condom in those expensive trousers of yours,” she growls into his ear.

“No,” he gasps.

Mary sighs and slaps him again. He giggles. 

“I'll go get one.” Mary makes to rise, but he grabs her wrist.

“No,” he says, “not this time. Please.”

“Now who's being an idiot?”

“You're on the pill. I just want to feel you. Please? Please Mistress, it's been so long!” He lets desperation bleed into his face, his eyes, his breath. 

“You've done nothing to deserve that,” she snaps.

“Do you make him wear condoms?” Jim asks, and she knows he has her.

“Yes I bloody well do! Birth Control is not 100% effective and can you imagine bringing a baby into this mess?”

Jim's face flows into a mask of stillness, as if he weren't bleeding on the floor, hard as a rock beneath her. “I imagine it all the time,” he says, meeting her eyes, willing her to understand what he's saying.

“Oh fuck no, you fucking lunatic. No.” She slaps him. “No!”

“Yes,” he says softly.

“This isn't a game,” she says, “you can't know what you're saying.”

“Of course it's a game, you stupid bitch!” his face contorts and he screams directly in her face. He slaps her and she pins his hands roughly to the tile beside his head.

“Do that again,” she says, voice quiet and dangerous, “and I will cut off the hand that hits me.”

“Imagine it,” he says, ignoring her threat, “Imagine how much he will love that baby.”

“John?”

“Him too,” Jim nods, “but also. . .”

Mary could see it. She could see it so well. John would insist on making Sherlock the godfather. Sherlock would take to being the crazy Uncle with the same fierce dedication he gave to being the best best man he possibly could. He would love their child from the very bottom of his heart if he thought it were John's.

“You are a sick, sick, fuck,” Mary says. 

“I know!” Jim favors her with a gleeful grin, which would look half mad even without blood smeared all over his face.

“But why? Isn't this enough?”

“It. Will. Never. Be. Enough!” Jim screams again, lurching against her pin, eyes wild and fierce. “Not until his heart is nothing but ash. I will give him things to love and I will take them away from him until he is so broken he crawls to me on his knees begging me to fix it. 'Fix it for me Jim, make it stop, give them back, please Jim fix it for me.'”

“He's already pretty broken,” Mary says, “but his pride keeps him upright. I don't think he'll ever crawl the way you want him to.” She unties her scrub bottoms and shoves them down, followed by her knickers.

“Did you know he's using again?” Jim settles back to the ground, calm again.

“What? Really?”

“John doesn't kno-oow!” Jim sings.

“Christ.”

“It's morphine this time,” he giggles, “he is _escaping_. Do you know what happens to a morphine addict when you take it away?”

“Pain,” says Mary, drawing his cock out of the lacy blue knickers and smearing it with blood, “lots and lots of pain.”

“He will crawl, my darling, and he will beg me to make the pain go away, because that is what addicts do. But first I must break him down completely, force him to wall himself off from everyone who cares about him, make it impossible for him to forge a connection with anyone but me, me, good old Jim who makes the pain go away. . .ooohhhhhh”

Jim moans as Mary sinks onto his naked cock and starts to move. She tosses the knife aside and grabs his tie, looping a slip knot around his throat and pulling, pulling until he chokes and his eyes widen and his hands scrabble against the silk. She uses it for leverage, pulling herself forward and falling back, forward, back, forward, back. . .until Jim's lips start to turn blue and his eyes lose their sharp focus.

Mary loosens the tie and blood rushes back into his head as he takes a gasping painful breath. She slaps him and his hips jerk and he screams and comes so hard she can feel the pressure of his release on her cervix and is so so glad such a brilliant orgasm wasn't wasted in the tip of a condom. She grinds her clit against his pubis and rides him fast and hard, using him before his erection fades. James Moriarty didn't lie: he is a very big boy, and the tip of his cock can pound into that spot inside, right through her clit on the outside, the two sensations escalating each other until she comes hard, silent, soaking that ruined scrap of lace, leaving a slippery puddle on the tile to mix with the blood already there. She collapses over him, head on his chest, and tries to catch her breath. 

Finally, she rolls off to assess the damage. Jim is limp in a puddle of blood and sexual fluids. His eyes are closed but he's clearly breathing. Mary snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Hey, are you conscious in there?”

His eyes snap open. “I missed you, Mistress Mary.”

She smiles. “I missed you too, Jim.”

He sighs and smiles back at her, a genuine happy smile. “Tell me I'm brilliant.”

“You are brilliant,” Mary says.

“Aren't I though?”

“So, so, sexily brilliant,” Mary says, and plants a gentle kiss on his lips.

“I love you,” he says. 

“I know.”

“Do you love me?”

Mary shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Do you love John Watson?”

Mary shrugs again. “Maybe.” 

“Do you have a heart, Mary Morstan?”

She smiles, all teeth, and places one hand over his heart. It's still beating fast and hard. “Of course I do, Jim. I just haven't carved it out of you yet.”

Jim closes his eyes again and moans. “Ooooh Mary, you always know the perfect thing to say.”

“I own you,” she says, “you are my mad genius, and you always will be, even when Sherlock bloody Holmes comes crawling to you on his knees.”

“Oh, I don't know. Sherlock is very possessive. I think he'll want me all to himself.”

“Well then I'll just have to teach him how to share, won't I? Look what a good job he's doing with John!”

Jim meets her eyes again and starts to laugh. “Oh Mary!” he gasps between giggles, “Oh Mary, _yes_! Think about how much he will hate to share me!” More high pitched giggles. 

Mary ruffles his hair. “You're lucky I'm willing to indulge you, boy.”

“Mmm,” hums Jim, “yes I am.”

“You have made a mess of my kitchen. Get up and clean it up before John gets home. I want to see your ass in the air in those naughty lace things as you scrub my floor.” Mary rolls smoothly to her feet and drags a kitchen chair into the doorway. She plants herself in it and puts her chin on her hand. “Well, get on with it.”

Jim grins, cheeky, and levers himself up with a grimace. “Yes, Mistress.”

* * * * * * * * * *  
John comes home hours after sunset with a black eye, bloody knuckles, and blood on his collar. Mary has showered and changed into her nightgown, back in character: the doting fiancé. 

“Oh my god!” she exclaims, “John, what happened?”

“Nothing I couldn't handle. Just a few thugs. I've been at the police station.” He licks his lips, nervous but vibrating with barely contained energy. 

“And you couldn't send me a text? Give me a call?”

“They broke my phone, I'm sorry,” John hangs his head, trying hard to be properly ashamed of his behavior, but she can see the thrill of violence still glinting in his steely blue eyes. 

“I've been worried sick about you! I even texted Sherlock.” She had, while she watched Jim wiggle his arse around her kitchen, mopping up blood and cum with what was left of his designer suit. 

“Oh Mary, I am so so sorry.” He wraps her up in a hug and she can feel his heart pumping, his increased temperature, his half-hard cock pressed against her. 

She shoves him away. “Don't you ever do that to me again, John Watson!”

“I won't. Mary, please. . .”

She holds up a hand to stop him. “It's fine. I know what you are. I love you.” She crosses her hands in front of her body and pulls her nightgown over her head. She isn't wearing anything beneath. “Now make it up to me. At least three times.”

John grins and his eyes finally flood with the lust he's been pointlessly hiding from her. 

He chooses the kitchen table, just like Jim said he would.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Mary!” Sherlock shouts as he barges in without knocking. “I can't find him. Have you heard anyth. . .”

The detective comes to a grinding halt as he rounds the corner into the kitchen and finds Mary bent over the table, John naked and sweaty behind her. John's hand is in her hair, still pulling her head back, baring her throat. He pauses, eyes wide without an exit plan, bottomed out inside her arse, so close to coming Mary can feel him pulsing inside of her. 

“Er, um, Sherlock, hi,” he gasps, stiffening his knees to fight the impulse to keep moving, thrusting. 

“I. . .I. . .I. . .” Sherlock stutters, pale eyes wide with shock and flooding with hurt. John won't see it, he never does.

“Um,” says John.

“Uhhhhhh,” moans Mary, and wiggles her arse.

John swears and slaps her bum. “Mary! We have company!”

Mary can't help it, she collapses into helpless giggles. They shake her frame, and soon John is giggling too, draped over her back, gasping and giggling and he can't help it he can't he was too close when Sherlock walked in and he comes into her arse with a grunt and another giggle and a “Oh god sorry Sherlock so sorry, god,” followed by more giggles and a satisfied sigh.

Mary looks up at the detective. He hasn't moved. He is frozen there in the doorway with a desperate look on his face, mouth hanging open. Eyes locked on John. He probably never thought he'd get to see John like this, and now it's the only memory he's going to have. Jim is going to _love_ this.

“Sherlock!” Mary says firmly.

“What?” He blinks. Several times. “Oh. Oh yes. Um. Glad John is alright. Right. I'll just. Right.” 

Sherlock Holmes turns on his heel and flees.

Mary grins, glad to be the knife inching its way toward his heart, Jim Moriarty's sharp blade, his beloved tool. She has always been a sadist, but it wasn't until Jim that she learned to eviscerate hearts as well as bodies. 

“Well that was awkward,” John says, pulling out and tying off the condom before tossing it into the bin.

“Every kid walks in on their parents eventually,” Mary says, turning around to lean on her elbows on the table. 

John chuckles. “You are terrible.”

“You love me.”

“Oh yes,” he agrees, coming back over to wrap his arms around her and press a gentle kiss to her lips. They are still bruised from earlier when she smashed them against Jim's teeth, but John doesn't notice anything. 

“I love you too, John Watson,” Mary says, as is expected.

She doesn't know if it is true. It could be true. Mary isn't sure she knows how to love, really, but she knows that she desperately needs to _be loved_ , to be valued for who she is. Jim gives her that, but maybe, someday, John could too. John, crazy, codependent, violent, haunted, John, he could love her everything, couldn't he? If there was another person on the planet who could, it was him. 

She could have him on this table. Mary Morstan could take John Watson. She could force him down, arm against his neck while he struggled, put her fingers in his arse and claim him as her own. He might even like it. But how would she explain her skills? Fuck. Not tonight. She'd accomplished enough for one evening, and besides, Jim was back.

She had three men to torture now, and an endless variety of knives to make them bleed with.


End file.
